Page 73 of Six Days in Bombay

She said nothing, but I could tell by the lift of her eyebrows that something had registered.

The pregnant woman at the table snapped her fingers. In broken English, she said, “She speaks of that lothario! Paolo…” She batted the back of one hand against the other, as if she were willing her memory to cooperate. “Paolo, Paolo…beautiful face… Paolo Puccini!” She smiled triumphantly.

The woman at the counter shot furious Italian at her friend. Something about why she was interfering. Why wasn’t she at home serving her husband? Her lunch companion wasn’t offended. Instead, she laughed. If I understood her correctly, she said, “Why do you think I’m not there?”

The administrator turned to me again with a frown. “My niece! Coming to office so pregnant. Always eating. She is eating for three, we are told.” She sighed. “But she is right. Unfortunately—or fortunately, Mr. Puccini no longer works here.” She took off her glasses and splayed her hands.

“Do you know where I could find him?”

Once again, the pregnant woman spoke. I caught “Borgo San Frediano” in the long string of Italian words between the women.

My watery-eyed friend shrugged her shoulders and straightened some papers on the counter.

I waited. Finally, she said, “We have a very strict policy, you understand. Paolo became friendly with female students.” She dropped her chin and lowered her voice. “Although theragazzealso were a little too friendly with him. In Paolo’s case, it was Miss Novak—andla mama.” She looked at me with resignation. “Che fiasco!This we could not tolerate.”

The younger woman at the table whispered loudly, “The mama wasinnamoratawith Paolo.” She shook her head.

The older woman was watching my reaction. Seeing none, she said, “Va bene. You can find him…”

She turned to consult her friend, who repeated, “Borgo San Frediano.”

The pregnant niece rubbed her enormous belly. “Everyone falls in love with Paolo. You did too, didn’t you, Zia Maria?” she teased. I nodded to the women and turned to go.

I had barely walked two steps away from the window before the older woman began scolding her niece, something about how she should stay out of other people’s business. The younger woman’s laughter ricocheted around the stone walls of the school.

***

Borgo San Frediano was on the other side of the Arno. Tourists tended to stay on the Duomo side of the river so they could visit the cathedral, or the Uffizi Gallery. I had to cross the river to the south side by way of the Ponte Vecchio where I heard English being spoken everywhere. As I walked across the bridge, I found myself envying the English and American women, their flowing silk dresses and skirt suits, their wedge heels—which seemed to be all the rage here. I felt conspicuous in my nurse’s uniform and sensible shoes. TheInglese, as they were called, were asking to see the heavy gold bracelets and necklaces on display at the shops along the bridge. And shopkeepers were only too happy to usher them into their stores—an espresso and almond biscotti at the ready. I wondered what it would be like to be as free with money as these women were.

I skirted around the shoppers and stepped up my pace.

Paolo’s street turned out to be only two blocks long. I walked up and down the street hoping to find—what?—a sign for a painter? Or a painting tutor? I still didn’t know Paolo’s exact address. I would have to knock on doors. My heart thudded in my chest. I was confident within the walls of a hospital, butoutside of it, my courage often faltered. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door to my right. No answer. I knocked on the next door. And the next. If someone answered, I asked, “Paolo Puccini?” After several shakes of the head, a man with a broom answered his door and pointed to the building opposite.

I knocked on the door he indicated. No answer. I turned to the man with the broom, who nodded and gestured with his hand that I should knock harder. I did.

“E adesso?”

The bellow had come from above. I staggered back several steps to look up at the second floor. The man with a paintbrush in his hand and an appropriately paint-stained white shirt must be Paolo. The pregnant woman at the Accademia had not been wrong; he was striking. Dark curls framed his face. His complexion was that of a betel nut—smooth, earthy brown. He wore his shirt open at the throat and his sleeves rolled up his forearms. He was the man in Mira’s painting of theMan in Abundance.

“Mi scusi, signor.” It was all I could manage before I relapsed into English. “I’m looking for Paolo Puccini, the painter.”

“Why?” he asked in accented English.

I didn’t want to shout Mira’s name on the street or cause people to pull the curtains open on their windows. I looked around to see if the man with the broom was still watching. He was.

From above, I heard Paolo firing rapid Italian at the man, who tapped his chin with the back of his hand and disappeared into his building.

I sighed. “It would be easier if you could let me in or you could come down to talk to me.”

“Do you want to commission a painting?”

“What? No.”

“Well, I’m painting now.”

“But I have something for you. It’s important that I give it to you.”

He examined me more closely. He hesitated. “Do you know Caffè Doney?”

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